When the Day Sleeps
by LolaB
Summary: Rentfic. MarkMimi. I updated. Out of boredom. Plus I'd already had some more written about a year ago. :P
1. Default Chapter

A/N: 12-12-02. I'm back. :P That was fast. LOL. I actually started this story in July. Now that OPOW's out of the way, I can focus on it. The idea came to me at random while I was at the movie theater seeing Ice Age. My friends and I have since called this story Ice Age. It has been very difficult for me to give it the title you see here. LOL.  
  
I have Grand Plans for this story. (The first 50 or so pages have already been written.) Lots of twists and evilness and cliffhangers planned-you know, the usual. It's going to be a huge-ass epic. And Mimi doesn't die this time! *flails*  
  
(See OPOW disclaimers. I'm lazy. :P)  
  
(Becca wrote the first kiss and the page or so surrounding it. Yay. :)  
  
We begin after Mark's birthday party.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
and who can say  
  
when the day sleeps  
  
if the night keeps  
  
all your heart?  
  
-enya  
  
  
  
1.  
  
There is something about that post-party essence that I've always loved. Everyone's either gone home or passed out in various rooms of the apartment- the latter in this case-and I'm left alone. I never seem to get drunk enough to fall asleep on the floor or against a random shoulder. I try, I really do; there's nothing fun about being in a dark empty loft, essentially all by yourself, surrounded by paper plates and remnants of cake.  
  
Oh, I'm kidding myself. I love it. I love it because it plays out wonderfully on film.  
  
I nestled myself on the floor of the living room just outside the kitchen, between a giant beach ball Maureen had dragged with her (do *not* ask why) and a box that appeared to be the official location of used wrapping paper and ribbons. In this state of perfect security and solitude, I lifted my camera from the table and held the lens up to my eye.  
  
You'd think they would have been a bit kinder on my birthday, but no. The apparent deal had been that I could get as plastered as I want, eat cake till my heart's content, and go to bed that night with whomever I liked, as long I could just "put the fucking camera down for once in your life, Marky!" I ventured the offer of remaining sober, hungry, and celibate, but this did not suit her.  
  
And so, for the entire evening, I was resigned to sit and open gifts and eat cake (and I never did get to pick who I wanted to sleep with), while the filming duties were passed to whoever currently had the least amount of alcohol in their bloodstream. It wasn't long before that individual ended up being the kitchen table.  
  
But now, I was alone-in the best imaginable way: in a room surrounded by life that was oblivious to the unrelenting scrutiny of a camera.  
  
I began my night's work in a corner of the living room, panning first across the sight I knew would prove most rewarding when I handed out copies of this video. Roger went before anyone else-he'd passed out on the couch hours ago after a particularly grueling round of strip poker. He hadn't been asleep for thirty seconds before the girls crowded around him with their respective make-up bags and...  
  
Let's just say, this is why I never fall asleep first.  
  
"I want a copy of that tape."  
  
I spun towards the direction of the voice, and seeing as it came from behind me, nearly dropped my camera in the process. Mimi stood in the shadows of the kitchen, fitting perfectly-as she always tended to do- between the refrigerator and a countertop.  
  
She shot me a grin. "Bribery at its best. Imagine all the things we could make him do."  
  
I smiled back. "You're evil, Miss Marquez."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know."  
  
She took a few steps forward as I returned to my camera, zooming in on the purple eye shadow that had been Maureen's final contribution. "Oh my God..." I mumbled to myself, squinting through the lens. "Is that red nail polish?"  
  
"Not red. Cherry Explosion," she announced proudly, waving her matching fingernails in front of the camera.  
  
I captured her hand in mine and held it out of the frame, trying not to laugh. "He looks like Angel."  
  
"I think it's sexy."  
  
"I think you're drunk."  
  
"I think you just need to get laid."  
  
That was it. The camera dipped as I dropped my hand to my side, and the perfect shot was lost. I found myself trapped in an incoherent laugh/gasp hybrid as I turned to face her. "You're shameless."  
  
"You're blushing."  
  
Damn it.  
  
I brought the camera back up to my face. Everyone was right. I did hide behind it. Under the circumstances... wouldn't anyone? "I had plenty of chocolate tonight," I informed her, mock-indignantly, as I pretended to adjust the focus. "That's enough. Sex is overrated."  
  
A stifled snicker. "Typical," she diagnosed, crossing the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of champagne and two glasses, which seemed to have been magically summoned into existence out of thin air.  
  
I watched as she deftly poured identical quantities into both glasses and handed one to me, still boasting that knowing smirk. "Typical of what?" I had to ask.  
  
"Of men I haven't slept with."  
  
Of course, I'd picked this moment to take my first sip of champagne, which now went spurting across the kitchen in a spray of embarrassment. She smiled smugly, and it was obvious this was certainly not the first time she'd elicited such a reaction.  
  
"I see," I replied casually, failing to force back the grin that was threatening to expose my amusement. Feeling the color in my face rise yet again, I subtly reached for my camera and went back to filming the party wreckage.  
  
It was times like this that I felt that little bit of regret. It wasn't a very powerful or frequent sensation... but it was enough to come back and haunt me in a very laughable sort of way, whenever I had a moment alone with her. Which wasn't all that often. She was quite the skilled flirt, I knew that much. Her charms had seduced us all, to some extent. Collins always joked that if anyone could convert him, it would be her. In weekly fights, Maureen frequently threatened to leave Joanne and run off with her, not at all fazed by the fact that Mimi was a) somewhat straight, and b) somewhat devoted to Roger.  
  
Which brought me to that little, infrequent regret. If I'd kicked him out of the house that Christmas Eve and elected to stay home myself and mope... she might be mine at this very moment.  
  
She was just one of those women, I suppose. The kind so far out of your league, that even the fantasy would be little more than comic relief.  
  
I became suddenly aware of her chin resting on my shoulder as she attempted to peer through the camera lens from behind me. "Are you always up this late?" I asked.  
  
"Always. Can't sleep if anyone else is still up."  
  
"But I'm always up."  
  
I could feel her smile... I'm not sure how. Maybe a smile warmed the breath that was tickling my neck. Maybe I'd spent so much time behind a camera that I'd developed eyes in the back of my head, purely out of necessity.  
  
Finally, I had to know. "What exactly are you doing?"  
  
"Trying to see what you see."  
  
It was a simple enough answer for an equally simple question, but it seemed to strike me in a less obvious way. Perhaps because I couldn't remember the last time anyone had tried to see anything I saw. Even if it *was* out of boredom. Even if they *were* drunk.  
  
All right, maybe it wasn't quite that flattering after all.  
  
Another long, silent moment passed us by. "You're missing out," she informed me.  
  
Distraction had hit me long ago, but it finally materialized as I set down my camera and turned to face her. "What do you mean?"  
  
There it was. That smile from the night we met, Christmas Eve. The "I know you-you're the guy who tripped over his chair and sprained his ankle when I gave you a wink at the club" smile. Yes. Yes, that was me. And that was the smile.  
  
"Come on, I'm taking you out." This wasn't a request. Her hand had already latched onto mine, and she was dragging me toward the door.  
  
"Wh-what? No. I mean-no. Why?" I finally concluded, straightening the bag of Styrofoam cups I'd tripped over.  
  
I had no particular (or valid) objections to spending a night painting the town with arguably the most beautiful woman in it. But the appeal seemed to decrease significantly at the image of Roger waking up to find that he had been decked out in drag, and that his girlfriend and I had disappeared by ourselves for a night of traditional birthday festivities.  
  
All right, maybe not traditional. I was a guy, after all. 'Traditional' would mean a strip club.  
  
Hmm.  
  
That smile was still illuminating her face, begging for consent. And under normal circumstances, really, who'd be able to resist? I was just beginning to contemplate why I'd been so immediately inclined to label these circumstances as beyond normal, when-  
  
"You think too much."  
  
I looked up from my still-scattered cups. She was right, of course. Usually I despised it when people called me on that, because it always sounded like such an accusation. An imperfection. Something that needed to be worked on. But the way she said it made it sound like... a talent. An admirable, almost enviable, talent.  
  
For the first time without trying to hide it, I smiled back. "You don't think Roger would mind? I mean..." How to put this tactfully? The truth was, I wasn't sure I could handle her. Mimi was wild enough on her own; God knows what she was like with a few drinks in her. If she ended up dragging me to a bar and going home with some guy, I wouldn't know how to stop her, and Roger would kill me.  
  
I was being completely irrational, of course. She'd never leave him. You have to love someone an awful lot to feel confident enough to give them a makeover in their sleep.  
  
A giggle escaped her lips. "What, Marky? You think I'm trying to seduce you?"  
  
"No!" I laughed. Although if her voice hadn't been so unmistakably teasing, my answer may have been different.  
  
She'd already swung open the front door. "Come on. I want to show you something. Bring your camera."  
  
Involuntarily, my ears perked up at this, and I followed her into the hall- somewhat defeated to find that I was as easily entranced by her charms as anyone else.  
  
For three minutes my camera followed her, and I followed my camera-somewhat closely behind, seeing as I was holding it at the time. I looked around the neighborhood for signs of things I had perhaps missed during daylight filming, her claim that I was "missing out" still echoing in my head... but found nothing particularly uncommon. And so I filmed her instead.  
  
She darted around a street corner, and I followed. "Is it true, then?" she asked suddenly, and so casually, without even turning around, that I began to wonder if it had been my imagination.  
  
"Is what true?"  
  
In an instant she stopped walking and spun around to face me, a smile dancing across her face. "That I have the best ass below 16th Street."  
  
I raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was 14th."  
  
"Well, I've been working out." She raised a hand up to my still-filming camera and gently lowered it from my face, looking directly into my eyes. It was amazing how the lack of a screen between us could so exponentially raise the level of intimacy... and when she spoke again, although remnants of that grin were still noticeably detectable, her voice was slow and deliberate. "This wasn't what I meant when I said you were missing out. Wait until we get there."  
  
It soon appeared as though I wouldn't have to wait very long. A quick turn on her heel, and she had started toward the door of a ritzy apartment complex. Ritziness, granted, isn't too easily measurable at night, so I was forced to base my assessment on the uniformed doorman at the front entrance. He shot a wink and a smile in Mimi's direction, opening the door for us both, as Mimi led us inside.  
  
And up the elevator.  
  
...And onto the roof.  
  
A whisper of summer breezes tickled the ends of her hair as she stood across from me on the other side of the roof, looking very much like a child who'd triumphantly made it to the top of the jungle gym.  
  
"Very nice, Meems," I observed bemusedly, my senses instinctively snapping into awareness as the filmmaker in me began absently seeking out new targets. Still, I was struck by nothing extraordinary.  
  
So enveloped by this aimless search, I hadn't even seen her approach me. She slid her fingers around my camera-less hand, leading me over to a far edge of the roof, as we plopped to seated positions. Once more before I even noticed-beginning to make me regret my distractedness-she was behind me, hands resting lightly on my shoulders, soft breath caressing my ear as she guided her unobstructed line of vision as close as possible to my lens- covered one. The slight, comforting pressure on one of my shoulders vanished, to reappear only seconds later as her hand covered mine, slowly averting my camera's focus just a few degrees to the right. The prompt punch of a button-an action I knew had not been my own-and in an instant I was zoomed in on a lighted apartment window.  
  
"How did you..." The rest of the words ("...know how to use the zoom?") evaporated by the time they made it to my lips, as I found myself looking in on a young child's bedroom.  
  
"His name's Toby. See?" Her index finger appeared in a corner of the frame, pointing to a racecar nameplate above the bed.  
  
A tiny burst of shock emerged from my mouth in the form of laughter. "Mimi, this is-like-"  
  
"Illegal? Probably." The camera tilted again, just barely, fully independent of my own efforts, until it rested on the bedroom door. As a boy of six or seven burst cheerfully into the room followed by a lab puppy, Mimi's voice melted into a whisper. "He has leukemia." Silence. I was beyond tempted to question her, but had quickly learned in recent moments that an impending explanation was almost a guarantee. "On worse nights, you can hear his mom on the phone, screaming at the latest ten-year-old they just made a doctor."  
  
I was momentarily paralyzed, enraptured by how she could weave a casually verbalized handful of facts into a story I found myself utterly absorbed in.  
  
Almost as abruptly as it had appeared, the frame was lost as she tipped the camera upward, plunging us into the window of an entirely new apartment, where a woman was planted leisurely in front of her antique television set. The scene wouldn't have been anything exceptionally bizarre, save for the multitude of cats I began-and was continuing-to spot... everywhere.  
  
"She has twenty-seven. I've counted them. One for every man she's tried to date." A smile crept into her voice. "I've counted them, too."  
  
My awed silence had settled into a state of ease, and I stifled a snicker.  
  
"And this is Parker." In a flash of roughly changing scenery, the camera panned far left, leaving the cat woman behind us and presenting a young, upscale-looking man in a business suit, staring intently out his window. "He pretty much lives in that suit. Or another one. Sleeps in them, eats in them. Even works out in them." A brief, sweeping gesture indicated the exercise bike in a corner of his room. "Except the last weekend of every month, when his daughter comes to stay with him. They have this sort of weekend-initiation ritual, where they toss one of his work shirts out the window and order pizza..."  
  
I suppose she would have continued-I undoubtedly wanted her to-but her voice faded when she averted her gaze to meet mine, discovering that I in fact wasn't watching Parker through my camera, or watching him at all. I was watching her.  
  
She grinned shyly, lowering her eyes to the ground, and shrugged. "Anyway."  
  
I set the camera down beside me. "Do you bring a lot of people here?"  
  
"Just the ones I think will appreciate it."  
  
I wondered if that meant every man she'd ever snagged from a bar, or just the sensitive artistic bunch. Wondered, yes. Had the nerve to ask? No. One thing, however, I felt confident enough to inquire of. "How long have you been doing this?"  
  
"Since I moved here seven years ago."  
  
The shock must have burned right through my eyes, because she smiled.  
  
"I know; I have no life."  
  
I knew my silence was proving me rude, but I could find no words that would do justice to what I was feeling.  
  
"Anyhow..." (And she was still talking-God help me.) "I just thought you might find it interesting, y'know, knowing the way you... watch people, and stuff... and I-"  
  
I deemed this enough, and gently held a finger up to her lips. It didn't take much. She fell silent.  
  
Even though I knew there were only two words I'd be able to get out at this point, I found myself delaying even them. Silence always bought me time to think. To ponder. Or in this case, to ask. Who was this person in front of me, and why had I never met her in all the time she'd been dating my best friend?  
  
Where was I? Oh. Right. My two words.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She smiled that soft, wonderful smile at me, that smile she usually only saved for quiet moments with Roger.  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
She leaned forwards slightly and brought her mouth to mine in a brief brush of lips. Before I could even react, she pulled back and rested her head against my shoulder. I gazed down at my camera, fumbling to grasp what just happened.  
  
"Didn't I already tell you once tonight that you think too much?" she said, pinching my side.  
  
I couldn't help but grin as I squirmed out of her reach. "What's so wrong with thinking? It keeps me out of trouble."  
  
She rolled her eyes and crawled after me. "How boring is that? What's life without getting into trouble once in a while?"  
  
"You want trouble?"  
  
She raised her eyebrow at me, and I launched myself at her, tickling her sides, her neck, her stomach. Her laugh rang out clear and musical through the night sky as she tried to push me away.  
  
"Stop!..Stop, I-.I can't breathe!"  
  
"But I thought you liked getting into trouble!"  
  
She collapsed against the rooftop trying to catch her breath, and I followed, never relenting.  
  
"Mark, please!"  
  
Her hands flailed against mine trying to push me away until finally she gave up on defending herself and launched her counter attack. Her fingers crept under my shirt to the bare skin of my stomach. Why is it that women always seem to know the one spot where you're really ticklish?  
  
I lost my balance and fell on top of her, our laughter drifting together. I wondered vaguely if they could hear us at the loft from here.  
  
"Okay, okay! Truce?" Her hands withdrew, and I hovered above her, an arm holding me up on either side of her body.  
  
"Truce," she whispered, tears of mirth rimming her eyes.  
  
Slowly she raised herself up on her elbows, her mouth meeting mine for the second time that night. My mind shut down, and all I felt was this woman's beautiful body beneath me, and her lips pulling eagerly at mine. It never occurred to me that this was Roger's girlfriend, that this was wrong, that I was betraying him and ruining his relationship with both of us. It never occurred to me to stop it from happening.  
  
Mimi pulled back a fraction of an inch. "See what can happen if you just put down your camera once in a while?"  
  
Words weren't all that failed me. Even a courtesy nod or single blink of disbelief escaped my capacity. Never before had I found myself so able to watch someone, so closely, without a shiny, humming piece of machinery between us. And, contrary to what I suspected was popular belief, that wasn't because I feared this closeness-it was because *they* did.  
  
Or... I thought they did.  
  
Some untouched moments later found me wondering if I was dreaming. The way her eyes now penetrated mine conquered any doubt that this was utterly, impossibly real. But that kiss... how easily it could have been imagined.  
  
Off some absurd, subconscious notion that distance would encourage coherent thoughts, I slowly pulled myself out of that awkwardly perfect embrace, one piece at a time. First the sliver of moonlight between our bodies grew larger until we were a full twelve inches apart, seated across from one another. I allowed my hand to linger over hers for a moment, until I actually realized this, and shyly withdraw it. My eyes were last to retreat. I stared down at my camera, suddenly missing the safety of being behind it... and noticed it was still on.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I scrambled to turn it off, and turned back to Mimi, who let a giggle escape. "Oops."  
  
"Um..." My hands ran through my hair nervously-when had I started doing *that*? That was a Roger trademark.  
  
Roger...  
  
Suddenly all those concepts that hadn't occurred to me moments ago were occurring now. This was Roger's girlfriend. This was wrong. This... could still avoid disaster, with a carefully worded question.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
Fortunately that came out less harsh than it sounded in my head, because it wasn't exactly the carefully worded question I'd been searching for. Her head rolled back in that musical laughter, completely squelching my attempt to remain frustrated and confused. Instead I found myself breaking into a smile.  
  
"Oh, Mark," she sighed, still grinning, as she pulled herself to her feet and started toward the door.  
  
"Mimi! Wait-what-" Scrambling after her, I vaguely wondered if someone was watching our little drama from their own rooftop.  
  
She spun around and watched me, with that same closeness I'd felt only seconds ago, only meters away... but seemed to be in another life now. "I don't know," she confessed, the corners of her mouth just barely rising. "You just looked like you needed to be kissed."  
  
I actually felt the tension in my face vanish. Usually it never left, or disappeared so briefly that I never had time to notice. No one else had ever been able to tell when I needed something. Not even me.  
  
I felt the sudden urge to ask her if there was anything else she thought I needed.  
  
Instead, all I heard leaving my mouth was, "What about Roger?"  
  
She laughed. "What about him?"  
  
"Your boyfriend doesn't mind that you go around kissing people who look like they need it?" By this point, a straight face was out of even my reach.  
  
"My boyfriend is passed out on your couch wearing red nail polish and purple eye shadow. Where do *you* think his priorities would be right now?"  
  
I grinned, and she grinned back. And for the first time, I truly saw it. That look Roger used to rave about, when they'd first started dating, and he'd been sickeningly infatuated, talking about her nonstop. I'd ignored most of it, and as I'd been working obsessively on my film at the time, that wasn't very difficult. But there was one rant of his I could never forget. Maybe because I'd been forced to listen to it so often; maybe because I was jealous that I couldn't see what he saw. "She has this smile..." he'd declare, "but it's not intentional. It just independently appears on her face when she looks into my eyes. And I know it's because she's reading my mind."  
  
I blinked slowly, and when I opened my eyes, she'd looked away.  
  
Figures. I always manage to sabotage whatever precious moments I can't capture on film. Probably because they're so foreign.  
  
"Hey." A slight pressure from that small, delicate hand appeared on my arm. "You want some French toast?"  
  
For once, I was not going to question her. I nodded. "Yeah."  
  
And as she took my hand and proceeded to drag me to the elevator... I felt an unintentional smile of my own beginning to form.  
  
Between the two of us, a grand total of three strides had been taken toward the door before she spun around. Again. It was almost becoming predictably impromptu of her. I nearly ran into her, again, and started to wonder if this new habit of hers was just an excuse for physical contact.  
  
I smiled at the thought. Mimi was probably the last person on earth who would bother with an excuse for *that*.  
  
She smiled back. "Um..." Silence. The beautiful, lingering, welcome kind that only helped prolong a perfect moment. "Aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
I blinked. It was a non-question. I *was* forgetting something. I just had to figure out what.  
  
Her entire upper body-spandex and glitter and all-leaned in, pressing lightly, tauntingly against me as her lips floated just below my ear. "Your camera," she whispered.  
  
I knew that.  
  
Forcing away an embarrassed grin, I walked mechanically across the roof, retrieved my camera, and followed her downstairs. I hadn't imagined this possible. That a woman-that *anything*-could so distract me that I would actually forget my camera. Not simply drift from thoughts of it-but actually, truly forget about it entirely. But then again... I should have known. That's Mimi.  
  
No wonder it took Roger a year to find his song.  
  
  
  
  
  
[reviews will bring forth the following activities: strip clubs, stargazing, waffles... and more. word. :)] 


	2. 

A/N: 12/23/02: These are obviously not the "big plans" I promised I had. They come a bit later. But this is still mildly fun nonetheless. ;)  
  
I love reviews even more than sex toy ornaments (if you have to ask, go read "So This is Christmas"). Now *there's* something you don't see in Hallmark's Keepsake Collection. :P  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
2.  
  
The French toast shop-more specifically, an all-night diner whose cooks were cursed with the advertised promise of "Breakfast 24 Hours"-was about a 100-square foot hole-in-the-wall on 9th Street. My observation of flies hovering above the stove and soiled dishrags on the floor must have been palpably noticeable, seeing as the moment we received our meals, Mimi offered to eat outdoors. Despite the terribly inviting indoor table garnished with a solitary, lopsided folding chair... I consented.  
  
We planted ourselves some twenty feet outside the diner, on the curb, leaning leisurely against the wall of a building; the neighborhood was, for the most part, deserted, save for the anonymous sounds of a distant karaoke bar, seeming to float from nowhere and everywhere all at once.  
  
"I haven't done this in years," I remarked, dunking a slice of toast in sticky pancake syrup.  
  
A twinkle illumined her eye. "We still talking about the kiss?"  
  
I flicked a sprinkle of powdered sugar at her. "Shut up."  
  
Her head rested on my shoulder, briefly, as she paused emphatically to bask in her own smartass-style of wit. "I do this once a month," she announced.  
  
"What, breakfast at midnight?"  
  
"All of this. A stop on the rooftop, breakfast, clothes shopping, a piano bar, a strip club..."  
  
Bad time to be swallowing orange juice, Cohen. I choked and sputtered and gratefully accepted the napkin she'd been holding out a little too absent- mindedly for my comfort, as though she'd been expecting such an effect. "A strip club?"  
  
She shrugged. "A girl's gotta have fun."  
  
"But..." Oh, how to put it truthfully *and* tactfully? "You work at one."  
  
An eyebrow arched knowingly. "Oh, but baby, that's not the same as *going* to one."  
  
I immediately craved an elaboration on this, but bit my tongue. "So... who do you usually do all this with? Roger?" That's right. Keep bringing up the boyfriend. *That'll* keep you from drowning.  
  
She shook her head. "Just me."  
  
Hmm.  
  
Egotistic speculations stirred within me. "Then why am I here?"  
  
Another shrug, but I sensed that more was coming. She reclaimed her flimsy plastic knife and fork and began the strangely obsessive ritual of cutting her toast into six flawless squares-a process I'd been studying since her first slice five minutes ago. "I was watching you tonight," she stated simply. "At the party."  
  
Um. "...And?" Yes. That.  
  
"And... I..." Another shrug. They were getting progressively more bashful and, inevitably, adorable. "Something in your eyes told me you needed this."  
  
"This..." I echoed contemplatively.  
  
"This."  
  
I couldn't resist: "We still just talking about French toast?"  
  
She blushed. She actually blushed. The girl who, night after night, marches out onto a stage in front of an audience of gawking men and strips off every item of clothing she bears. And one smart comment from a passive, nerdy filmmaker brings a flush to her cheeks.  
  
"You just need to see what's on the other side of the camera, I think," she decided, busying herself with an already-shredded napkin.  
  
"You know," I sighed melodramatically, "contrary to popular belief, I'm not just some diffident, antisocial geek who can't possibly survive one ounce of the real world unless he's seeing it through a lens." [A/N: /tribute to Rentfic's Classic!Mark]  
  
"You have syrup on your pants."  
  
I looked down. She was right. And now she was laughing. "Shit," I mumbled, groping for spare napkins. As I swiped clumsily at the stain, napkins began to shred, and the spot only expanded.  
  
"No, no, no," she grinned, prying the napkins from my fingers and giving my hand a light squeeze. "This is perfect."  
  
A bold, slightly distracted side of me allowed my hand to remain in hers. "Is it, now?"  
  
She nodded solemnly, adding a wink-the only sign that her intentions were still as lighthearted as they'd begun. "We're going shopping."  
  
And with little warning, she tossed our plates and napkins into the trash and began dragging me by the hand, several blocks south, her energy keeping her a couple strides ahead of me for the first while. But once I settled into her rhythm, we walked side by side, half running off the sugar high of French toast, half falling into each other and giggling as though we were drunk. I was somewhat less demonstrative when it came to the latter, but I smiled and held her hand and shook my head at her craziness, occasionally blushing a shade not unlike that of a tomato, when she would make some wicked comment about alternative uses of hair gel or interesting bathtub activities.  
  
To this day, I'm unable to determine what made me interpret 'shopping' in the way that I did. My mind held the distinct image of an outrageously vintage clothes shop, my worst fear resting in the chance that I would walk out in a pair of golf pants or bellbottoms. Even as we turned a sharp left into the door of a shop boasting lace corsets and leather thongs in the display window, it didn't quite hit me. For all I knew, she was stopping in to ask directions.  
  
Twenty minutes later, however, found us in that same shop: me, standing stiffly and doubtfully in front of a full-length mirror, and Mimi, standing behind me to smooth out the back of my shirt and peek over my shoulder.  
  
"They're fabulous," she announced, running her fingers along the top of the pants.  
  
"I can't move," I reminded her.  
  
"You'll get used to it."  
  
"They're hot! They're like... sticking to me."  
  
She rolled forward on her feet, stepping up onto her toes. Her hands slid up the back of my shirt until they rested on my shoulders. I forced myself to look in the mirror again, wondering how Roger could tolerate those favorite leather pants of his as often as he did.  
  
"Yeah," she agreed, lips brushing almost intentionally against my ear. "But they're wickedly sexy."  
  
...And now we're through wondering.  
  
She was right, though. They would have made a rather clashing statement with my raggedy black sweater, but with the new crimson dress shirt she'd selected in the fifteen minutes I'd spent trying to get the pants on... she was right. I looked... well, not myself. But irresistible.  
  
"Come on," she tugged on my sleeve, pulling me toward the register. "You can wear them home."  
  
"Mimi, I can't afford this!"  
  
"It's okay, I've got a, uh... sort of a credit here."  
  
"I don't want to know, do I?"  
  
She grinned. "Absolutely not."  
  
That collection of spandex and glitter sauntered over to the register, leaning far enough over the counter to offer some magic words (and a rather pleasant view) to the poor, defenseless kid behind it... and I was beginning to learn that the room changed every time she stepped away from me. Not the room itself... but my impression of the room. She had a presence... she *was* a presence. When she was by my side... that's all I saw. Her touch was the only thing I felt, and her voice the only thing I heard.  
  
And one would think, when she stepped away... I would be able to see other things, hear other sounds, feel other sensations. But no. My entire world turned blank when she was gone-I simply watched her and was oblivious to everything. Well, everything but her... much as I tried.  
  
She's Mimi. How can you be oblivious to that?  
  
As she turned back around to face me, leading me out the door with a confident wink and a nod, she'd lured me back into her presence.  
  
"Mark, look."  
  
We'd been walking for what had likely been close to an hour... but it felt like mere seconds to me. Conversation found us the minute we left the store, and had latched on securely. It seemed, in fact, that there weren't even enough streets in all of New York to accommodate us. Twice we'd gone in circles, once gotten lost, and received at least one whistle or wink on every street corner... although I assumed those were directed mainly at her. Every time I went far enough out on a limb to say something even remotely daring, she found it amusing enough to fall against my side, giggling, and latch herself onto my arm for a few fleeting seconds.  
  
Our hands had brushed together more than once-more than a dozen times, probably-and every time my heart jumped just a little higher, and I hated myself just a little more, because every time I'd realize that the person effecting these embarrassingly juvenile reactions in me was none other than my best friend's lover.  
  
I lifted my gaze from the ground. "Hmm?"  
  
She gestured subtly toward a stunning blonde walking in our direction. "Not bad, huh?"  
  
I shrugged. "She's all right."  
  
"Go talk to her!"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Mark, that is the fourth girl you've refused to hit on in your new pants."  
  
She was right. She'd spent a cumulative total of ten minutes during our walk, lecturing me on how I need to take more initiative with women. And every time, I found myself choking back yet another way of saying that she was the only person I wanted to be with tonight. That, selfish as it seemed, I was having far too much fun with the rampantly jealous looks I was getting from every guy who passed us.  
  
But, of course... I couldn't tell her that.  
  
"I don't like blondes," was my latest excuse, and I was surprised I hadn't played that card yet.  
  
"You dated Maureen."  
  
"Yeah," I grinned. "That's why I don't like them."  
  
She whacked me playfully on the arm. "All right. In all seriousness now, 'kay?" I nodded, mock-solemnly. "How many people have you slept with?"  
  
Much as I wanted to pretend to be offended, there was one point I couldn't ignore. "I find it a little disturbing that you use the term 'people' rather than 'women'."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, the corresponding corner of her mouth following it upward. "How should I know?"  
  
"Mimi!"  
  
She giggled, falling against my side-a gesture I was quickly learning to anticipate, in every sense of the word. "I'm kidding. Now tell me."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Seven."  
  
I hadn't even realized she'd been holding my hand, swinging our arms back and forth the way children do at the park, until she stopped abruptly in her tracks, and, by the laws of physics, I was spun around to face her.  
  
She blinked, and with that simple gesture, every feature on face seemed to soften. "Really?"  
  
I shrugged. "Broom closet at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, disastrous senior prom, three in college, Maureen, and... some girl from the coffee place a month after Maureen left me."  
  
She blinked again, some small, odd variation of a smile flashing briefly across her face. "Oh."  
  
"Expected less?"  
  
She shrugged, fighting off the imminent blush, and resumed walking, her hand still clutched around mine. "Maybe."  
  
I smiled. "All right. Your turn."  
  
"Um... I don't think so."  
  
"Ohhh, no you don't!" It was my turn to halt to a stop without warning, spinning her around. "It's only fair. You know it is."  
  
"Mark, you don't want to know."  
  
I grinned. "Like hell I don't."  
  
She sighed, unable to conceal the tiniest of grins. I liked this-I'd found a new way to make her smile: being my rarely-displayed aggressive self. "All right," she consented. "Guess."  
  
"That is *not fair*!!"  
  
"Why not?!"  
  
"Because!" I whined. "If I guess too low, I'll be underestimating you. If I guess too high, I'll be insulting you."  
  
She grinned-a full-sized, genuine smirk. "Try me."  
  
My first instinct was to continue walking for another half-hour, mentally analyzing every aspect of the situation, taking into account all factors- her age, her occupation, her personality, her... Mimi-ness. But I quickly got the feeling that would only complicate my natural intuition, if I even had any on the matter. And so I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.  
  
"Ten."  
  
Her hand fell from mine-not out of shock, not out of offense-out of hysteria. The moment the syllable left my mouth, she was doubled over in laughter.  
  
"All right, all right, apparently not," I chuckled nervously. "I get one more chance, okay?"  
  
Miraculously, she managed to nod through her giggles, and plopped down on a brick wall at the edge of the sidewalk, as I began to pace back and forth, starting up the analysis that had initially tempted me.  
  
A solid thirty seconds rebuilt my confidence, and I stopped pacing long enough to face her. "Sixteen."  
  
Bad, bad choice, Cohen. The laughter rang out again, evil, and delighted by my helplessness. She hardly seemed insulted, or even terribly surprised. She was simply... amused. Highly. And it was maddening.  
  
"Twenty-five!" I whined, feeling as though I were simply falling through quicksand. "Thirty. *Forty*?"  
  
Forty was the turning point; she hopped down off the wall, stumbling over to me, half-heartedly forcing back her laughter. "Mark-" she choked. "Stop. Just-stop."  
  
I sighed, my arms flopping to my sides. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Hey." Her hands cupped my face, gently, just to bring my eyes toward her. "Don't feel bad. No one's ever been able to guess."  
  
I shrugged, feeling utterly defeated, utterly childish... and not really giving a shit about either.  
  
"You really want to know?"  
  
My mouth opened, prepared to blurt something to the effect of, 'Hell yes, after THAT?!' But instead, only silence filled the air around us, with the occasional taxi whizzing by, or the sounds of a restaurant floating past us.  
  
I took a deep breath, released it, and shook my head. "Not really."  
  
The warmth from her hands vanished as her arms fell limply to her sides. "Okay," she whispered.  
  
We continued walking-slower, though, and in silence. Her hand once again found mine, an assurance that she was neither irreparably insulted nor disappointed. It was the first time all night that I was unable to read her, and it drove me crazy. But at some point, during my frantic guessing and her infuriating laughter, I'd decided I didn't want to know. I wasn't sure why, but I just didn't. I don't know what I was afraid of-it's not like she was *my* girlfriend, after all. For all I knew, Roger might not even-  
  
Hmm.  
  
"Does Roger know?"  
  
She looked up at me and, slowly, shook her head.  
  
My jaw dropped, but what could I say? What would I possibly have to say that was insightful or appropriate? He didn't know. That's all there was to it. I assumed he'd nagged her enough, and she refused, or gave him a fake number. It was just like him. It probably drove him crazy for a grand total of five minutes, and then he gave up. I smiled at the thought.  
  
"Why not?" I ventured.  
  
She shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me his number, so I didn't tell him mine."  
  
I grinned. "It's twenty-four."  
  
"Roger?!" Her eyes widened, a shocked laugh escaping her lips as she shook her head, sighing melodramatically. "God! What a slut."  
  
"Totally," I smiled.  
  
With this and a thousand other things in mind, I stopped, looking down at our hands, and then at her. "Tell me."  
  
"Really?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Three."  
  
It was a fully drawn-out ten seconds before I believed her.  
  
"...Wow."  
  
She smiled, realizing our situation's emotional control had been tossed into her court. "Expected more?"  
  
"Um." My tongue found itself suddenly lodged in my throat. "No. I mean-yes. I mean-no?" She nodded, encouragingly, eyebrows raised in anticipation of my finally completing a coherent sentence. But I knew she was little beyond amused. *Very* amused. Far more amused than she had right to be. "I mean- yes," I finally decided. "Not because-I mean, I don't think you're-"  
  
"A slut?"  
  
"Yes. I mean-no! I mean-who?" That's it, Cohen, you're catching on. Turn the questions back to her.  
  
Her composure and level of amusement remained intact. "Benny and Roger, and Matt... my boyfriend from high school."  
  
Ah, I remembered Matt. I remembered how she and Roger had come home fighting one afternoon because they'd ran into "Matt". Yes... yes, I was familiar with Matt. And by this point, names were putting me at ease-we'd progressed from numbers to actual people, and finally everything was somewhat less ambiguous and shocking.  
  
"But..." I moved slightly forward, looking both ways before leaning in toward her. "Don't you remember that night we got drunk at Roger's gig?"  
  
The sound of her laughter made all the remaining tension vanish. She swiped at the sleeve of my shirt, and it was likely my imagination, but she appeared to be blushing. "Shut up, Mark."  
  
I smiled triumphantly at my joke, shrugging her off and starting back down the street. I'd barely made it three paces before a large, powerful force hurled itself at me, climbing up for a piggyback ride, as the impact sent me stumbling forward two superfluous steps.  
  
"Mimi!" I gasped, half-laughing as I reached my arms around to support her.  
  
"You think you're so cute," she whispered into my ear.  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"See if you're still as cocky once we get inside The O."  
  
I nearly dropped her. "Excuse me?"  
  
"The club I'm taking you to." Her tone was nothing if not smug. She was quickly learning how to structure just the right phrases that would send me off into a fit of tripping or speechlessness. Or in this case, both.  
  
We reached a door on the side of a building, quite possibly the least likely club entrance I could have imagined. There were no signs-either or life, or for the establishment itself-but merely a door. Mimi hopped down off my back and began fumbling with the zipper on the back of her dress.  
  
"Could you-" she began, pointing vaguely.  
  
I stepped forward, brushing her hair away until I found the zipper, and stopped-the reality of the situation finally closing in. "Mimi, um... what are we doing?"  
  
She smiled. "Jeez, I was wondering if you were going to ask. Just get the top hook undone. That thing's a bitch."  
  
"But why?" I whined.  
  
"In case."  
  
"In case of *what*?" I asked, somewhat pointlessly, seeing as my fingers were already deftly detaching the tiny hook at the top of her dress, essentially without question. I trusted her far more than I should. God, I was so easy.  
  
"Nothing," she grinned, taking my hand and swinging the door open. "Come on." 


	3. 

A/N: 01-04-03: Happy New Year, all! There is a bit of fun in this chapter. Things only get better, worse, and crazier from here. Enjoy.  
  
Seeing as I am on a diet, reviews are my chocolate. Indulge me. ;)  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
3.  
  
The first thing I noticed was the looks. Not the darkness, the overactive fog machine, or the pounding music, or even the people up on the stage. We were both getting looks. Not strange looks, per se; almost disturbingly friendly ones, even. Either they were directed at Mimi, which was more likely although made me irrationally jealous, or they were directed at me in amusement, in which case my discomfort was as obvious as I feared.  
  
I tapped Mimi's arm, hiding behind her, feeling like a two-year-old. "Meems... people are staring at us."  
  
She turned toward me, the room's wild lighting making her ear-to-ear smile almost ethereal. "They can always sense when you're new to these places," she informed me.  
  
"I don't look *that* obvious!" I protested. "I-I'm wearing leather."  
  
"You've got leather pants on," she corrected, watching as I struggled to smooth out the wrinkles. "I wouldn't say you're *wearing* them all that well."  
  
I gave her a look, but was unable to keep a straight face. There were several more things I was prepared to comment on, but found us growing closer and closer to the stage with every step we took. Well, I wouldn't say *I* was taking steps, so much as merely following hers.  
  
"Mimi!" A man-er, woman-er... dancer-was prancing up to us from behind, throwing her arms around my companion with a huge grin.  
  
I stepped back, vaguely hoping I might remain invisible, and watched.  
  
Mimi, however, was still very much aware of my presence. She took my arm and led me back to her side. "Giselle, this is Mark. Mark-Giselle." We exchanged greetings, and Mimi leaned in toward her friend furtively, shooting me a wink. "It's his birthday."  
  
Oh, God. I'd forgotten. Birthdays at these places always meant something... special. "Mimi-" I began.  
  
"No, it is!" she insisted, sharing a mischievous grin with Giselle, who nodded a little too understandingly for my comfort. "But, uh, he's straight."  
  
I perked up at this. Why, WHY would she make that statement as though it were an unusual, little-known fact?  
  
Giselle looked me up and down, one eyebrow raised. "That's a shame," she sighed. "All right, then. Come on, Meems."  
  
For the first time that evening, Mimi was the one to bear that look of shock on her face. I almost had to laugh. "Me?!"  
  
"Sure!"  
  
Mimi burst into giggles, her face glowing with bashfulness-perhaps the one expression I'd never seen in her before. "Oh, honey, I can't," she insisted. "I think Marky might have a heart attack if I leave him alone in here."  
  
"We'll take care of him."  
  
Giselle grinned at me, taking my arm and linking it with hers, as a hoard of dancers appeared, with a puff of smoke and calypso music. Usually, that was just an expression. They circled around my only link to safety, carrying her off toward the stage, and if she hadn't been laughing as hard as she was, I would have been tempted to go rescue her.  
  
But just tempted.  
  
I was a guy, after all. And, as had been previously established... I was straight.  
  
I was plopped into some odd chair, and the room was immediately masked in darkness, which would have seemed impossible, considering its near pitch black state before. I glanced around me nervously, already abandoned by Mimi and now by Giselle.  
  
Speaking of Mimi, where-  
  
I hadn't even realized that the music had stopped until it started up again- louder, closer, hotter, darker-and accompanied by a flash on the stage: first, a beam of light, and then a shadow-motionless, half-secluded, and perfectly poised.  
  
She'd done this before.  
  
...Of course she had, Mark. She was a stripper.  
  
I would have rolled my eyes at my stupidity, had they not been so locked in her general direction.  
  
The introduction in the music grew to a crescendo, and as the shadow approached the edge of the stage, a burst of light illumined the room... and there she was.  
  
It was odd to see her still sporting the same dress she'd spent all evening in. Even odder, however, was that I felt more awkward in this moment than I ever had in all those times Roger had dragged me to the Cat Scratch Club, where she'd never once been clad in anything larger than a dishtowel.  
  
The dress was gone by the end of this thought train, landing smack dab in the middle of my lap.  
  
She was good.  
  
She was looking right at me now, that almost professionally seductive grin sending my pulse soaring. For all I could focus on, it was as if the room was empty, except for the two of us. I allowed myself the luxury of being mesmerized by every move, every twist, every inviting glance... and she was getting closer. One more step and she'd be off the stage. One more step and she'd be-  
  
"Hi," she whispered in my ear.  
  
Roger was going to kill me.  
  
I shook my head in disbelief, trying to keep from smiling, but it was useless. She crawled off me, letting one leg linger across my lap before sliding to the floor and encircling my chair. I simply smiled at her, though not exactly knowing where to look. Unable to speak, my lips silently formed the words 'You're crazy.' She winked in response, vanishing briefly into the shadows before reappearing, her hands behind her back.  
  
My number may not have been as high as Roger's, but I'd done it enough times myself to know exactly what she was up to. Any moment now, that sparkly, magenta-colored scrap of cloth she seemed to think was a bra would be gone.  
  
As I shook my head, clearly spelling 'You wouldn't dare,' she only nodded, shooting me a final wink. She was right. She *would* dare. I should know that. This was Mimi, I told myself for the umpteenth time that night. Yet another new side of her, perhaps, but still. It was her.  
  
And just as her hands released the final hook behind her back, arms shooting up over her head... the room turned black.  
  
What a fucking tease.  
  
Cheers erupted among the crowd and clan of dancers, and Mimi was by my side in an instant, pulling her dress out of my hands and sliding it over her head as she dropped a kiss into my hair. "All right, happy birthday," she sighed, as the regular neon lights resumed flashing around the room.  
  
I struggled to pull myself to my feet, slowly rediscovering my ability to walk. "You-you're-"  
  
"I'm what, baby?"  
  
She expected *words*? Honestly. I simply shook my head, blushing and abandoning the notion that I would ever be able to keep a straight face the rest of the night.  
  
"Yeah, I thought so," she grinned. "All right. Enough of this. It's your turn now."  
  
My face fell, sobering instantly. "Wh-what?"  
  
She took my hands in hers. "It's you they wanna see, sweetheart."  
  
"What-" I stopped, looking around me and, for the first time, actually noticing the rest of the people in the room. Men. Not untypical. It was a strip club, after all...  
  
My gaze never made it to the other performers; before I knew it, Mimi had whispered something in someone's ear and they were pulling me back toward the stage. I recognized my chair as we neared it, but when they dragged me right past it, I started to panic. Mimi was behind us until we reached the chair, at which point she plopped down in it, crossed her legs, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and smiled at me.  
  
By this point, I was already on stage.  
  
"Mimi..."  
  
"All right, all right." She stood up, marched up to the edge of the stage, reached up toward me, and in one very experienced, fluid movement, my brand- new leather pants had collected in a heap around my ankles.  
  
My jaw dropped, but any sound I may have made was drowned in the roar from the crowd. I looked out to the swarming sea of faces, noting, for the second time that night... that they were all men.  
  
God, was she ever going to get it.  
  
I stared down at her in shock, but she seemed marvelously unfazed by the entire scenario. "One button," she whispered, fingering the top button on her own dress for emphasis.  
  
"No WAY!" I whined.  
  
"Please?" she pouted. "For me?"  
  
I should be able to resist, considering what she was asking me to do. I should. I really should. I continued pondering just how much I should, as I flicked open the top button of my shirt, and promptly dropped my arms down to my side. "There. HAPPY?"  
  
Wildly enthused shouts of approval echoed from the crowd, and I jumped back in surprise. Jesus. I wasn't talking to *them*. I glanced down at Mimi for guidance-a painfully bad decision. She was holding up two fingers this time, her eyes darting from mine to the second button.  
  
I shook my head, but even as I did, the second button was gone, as I forced myself to focus on one thought and one thought only: I'd better get one hell of a reward for this.  
  
In this same distracted manner, the rest of the buttons were soon unfastened, and I shrugged, backing away from the edge of the stage and holding up my arms. "Okay, okay, enough," I called, shocked to find that I had projected my voice past Mimi and into the rest of the group. But even as I said it, an anonymous force had sneaked up behind me, and in a flash, whipped off my shirt entirely.  
  
I looked down. Everyone was hooting. Mimi included.  
  
That girl was something else.  
  
All right. If this is what she wanted, this is what she would get. She'd given me the most outrageously liberating evening of my life, and if this was her one moment of self-indulgence, who was I to take it away from her?  
  
And so there I was, on stage, stumbling over chairs and tripping on discarded feather boas and scarves. Every so often, I felt someone crawl up beside me with a dollar bill, but I refused to open my eyes and look down... which was likely the reason I kept falling over everything. As the music grew to a finale, I ventured for the unthinkable-in the style of my sponsor, I reached down, prepared to whip off my pinstripe boxers as the lights shut out.  
  
In a movement-far less coordinated and swift than hers, I tore them off, and waited for darkness.  
  
Two seconds later, I was still waiting.  
  
My jaw dropped, and I was backstage in one mortified leap.  
  
I would never forget this night as long as I lived. Nor did I ever want to.  
  
The wind rustled her hair, an hour later, as we lay sprawled out in the grass at the park, staring up at the stars. I loved it-every time a breeze brushed past us, a curl of hair would fly across the small space between us and tickle my cheek. Conversation had ranged from favorite ice cream to favorite Broadway show to favorite sexual position, and had now evolved into casual relationship chat, occasionally interrupted by the discovery of a shooting star.  
  
"There's one!" she pointed suddenly at the sky. "Did you see it?"  
  
I nodded, distractedly, too intent on watching the glittery tail vanish into the otherwise unruffled sky.  
  
She reached into our M&M stash and popped one in her mouth. "Tell me about her," she whispered.  
  
I turned my head to look at her. "Who?"  
  
"Maureen."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
Mimi shrugged, propping herself up on an elbow. "What happened?"  
  
"Um..." I followed suit, half-sitting up and positioning the bag of M&Ms between us. "I don't think you've been following along closely enough the last couple years, Meems. She's a lesbian."  
  
She threw an M&M at me and, of course, it would have to land down my shirt. "Seriously."  
  
"Seriously what?"  
  
She looked down at the ground, stealing one last glance at the sky to check on any more hyperactive stars. "Did you love her?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Were you *in* love with her?"  
  
For a moment I was silent, deliberately catching her attention, and she looked at me. Slowly, I shook my head.  
  
My eyes drifted downward, but hers remained steady. "Have you ever been in love?"  
  
It was the first time I realized no one had asked me that before... including me. And such a simple admission was more than I ever wanted to admit to myself. Especially on a day as depressing as one's birthday.  
  
I looked up at her. "I don't know."  
  
I craved the strength she had, to look someone in the eye and not feel obligated to turn away after a few seconds. But I couldn't. I sent my eyes back to the ground, which is often worse, because you feel someone's gaze far more intensely when you're not reciprocating it.  
  
Her hand covered mine, suddenly. "I'm sorry. I mean-I-I understand."  
  
My eyes lifted to hers once more. "How could you? You have Roger."  
  
It's disastrous, how oftentimes you don't realize how awful something sounds until it's out of your mouth. Perhaps it was subconscious; I was so envious of her ability to keep her eyes locked, that I had to go and rob her of that one little skill. It didn't matter now; there was nothing I could do. I had succeeded, and she was looking anywhere but my direction.  
  
I sat up, placing a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"  
  
She shook her head, touching my hand briefly before sitting up and deliberately turning away from me.  
  
"Meems... are you okay?"  
  
That was all it took sometimes; the mere questioning of someone's well- being was enough to send them over the edge. I saw a tear slide down her face, followed by another, illumined by the moonlight, before she leapt up and made her way over to a nearby bench, plopping down in the middle of it and dropping her face into her hands.  
  
In seconds, I was by her side, my arms around her, but the beauty of whatever moment had started was gone just as fast as it had come. She stood up, wiping her eyes and forcing a smile. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm not going to ruin this evening. I promise."  
  
Again, I followed her. She wasn't going to get away this easily. "Mimi... what is it? Tell me."  
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"Mark, can we just forget this? Tonight's been so... Jesus, it's your birthday. I'm not going to ruin it."  
  
"Stop saying that," I snapped, and quickly softened my tone. "Just talk to me."  
  
A few moments passed, and I allowed her the satisfaction of at least pretending to deliberate, while we both know she wouldn't get away without first spilling whatever was going on. Slowly, she nodded, and followed me back to the bench. I waited, content to allow her all the time in the world.  
  
"It's just... when you mentioned Roger..."  
  
She stopped right there, and I knew she wasn't about to continue without insistence. "What about him?"  
  
She looked at me, which I had certainly not expected. "Things have been..." Another sigh, as she turned away. "He kissed some girl at the recording studio."  
  
Oh, God.  
  
"I mean-" she went on anxiously, "-he told me as soon as it happened. I know it was a mistake, he told me it was. I thought we'd worked through it. But... he and the band have been spending so much time there, and it's just hard for me to..."  
  
She didn't break off in tears, but rather in an effort to stifle them.  
  
"Oh, Mimi..."  
  
We both knew there was nothing I could say. They would work through it. They always did. I wasn't going to be some knight in shining armor who saved her from the evil suitor. She needed a shoulder to cry on, that's all; and in the last three hours, I'd learned that I desperately needed someone to comfort, someone to care for... someone to protect.  
  
For one night... we had each other. And it was okay. We were allowed to need each other like this, for a few hours. It was enough. It would be enough. And I kept telling myself this, as we sat there together for the next ten minutes, holding each other in silence.  
  
I knew it was over when she slowly extracted herself from my embrace and swiped at half-dry tears with the back of her sleeve.  
  
"Do you want to go home?" I asked.  
  
She shook her head. "No," she stated firmly, and I let it go at that. "Besides," she added, looking up at me with, to my relief, a fully genuine smile. "We still have one place left to go."  
  
Something had happened to us, during our brief time in the park. It would be so easy to assume it had something to do with her confession about Roger, or the simple fact that stargazing somehow put people-especially two people, alone-in a rather sentimental, quiet sort of mood. But I don't think it had anything to do with that at all. I think her last words were what struck us more deeply than anything else. We still had one place left, she'd said. One.  
  
...Just one.  
  
Our time was almost up. I hadn't even seen it as something that would end, like a wonderful vacation or an extraordinary Broadway performance. The entire evening had seemed so timeless, and for the first time all night, as we walked slowly down the sidewalk by the park, I glanced at my watch.  
  
Time was actually ticking by, after all.  
  
We'd never be able to do this again. It was my birthday; she was being nice. There would be no more weekends like this. No more rooftop kisses, French toast, leather, or stripping. No more shameless flirtations as we both grew more and more comfortable with overlooking her attachment to Roger.  
  
She relieved me of these dismal thoughts, as we walked. She was drawing closer and closer to me, and before long our arms were touching. Seconds later found us leaning against each other, savoring such a strange closeness on the vast, empty street. And finally, I felt her hand brushing lightly against mine, finding its place, waiting for acceptance... until our fingers were entwined.  
  
I don't know why this simple contact shocked me so, but as I glanced over at her, I saw that she was already watching me. She blushed, smiling momentarily, nervously, before looking down.  
  
I nudged her playfully and rested my head against hers. "Tell me," I whispered.  
  
"Tell you what?"  
  
"What you're thinking about."  
  
She drew in a long, slow breath, clearly intent on stalling. "I'm thinking..." She stopped, facing me, and I did the same. "We're here."  
  
I glanced up at the building in front of us-a quiet little club, dwindled to a languid, yawn-like state in the wee morning hours, sheltering only a few lingering patrons, who were fully engrossed in either their date or their drink.  
  
"Ah," I nodded, inspecting the door absent-mindedly, wondering if I was supposed to lead us inside.  
  
"And..." she continued, pulling me away from the door. "I think you're bordering on, uh... underdressed."  
  
I looked down at my shirt. No one, including myself, had bothered to fasten up the buttons once I'd snatched it out of a stagehand's arms backstage at the club. I'd been so overjoyed to hold my very own clothes in my hands again, that the thought of buttoning up hadn't even occurred to me.  
  
She grinned at me. "Come here."  
  
Her hands caught the shirttails, and she began fastening, working her way up, her agile fingers slowing with each button until she reached the top... at which point she stopped, cocked her head to one side, and promptly pulled the top two buttons back out of their holes, giving my chest a final pat.  
  
"Much sexier that way," she concluded with a wink and, not for the first time that night, my mouth went immediately dry.  
  
We stepped into the room, hand in hand, and I was scarcely past the doorway before my eyes landed, and fixated permanently, on the piano in the corner. It was a tattered old thing, but absolutely beautiful. In the years since quitting lessons, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd seen one up close, let alone dare to play it.  
  
But Mimi saw. Mimi always saw. She led us both toward it, stopping just as we reached the bench.  
  
My eyes scanned the keys-a brief flash of childhood memories. But soon, the proximity of it all... the room, the piano, Mimi... was enough to distract my gaze, and I turned to her. She was watching it just as I had been, though far less diverted-longingly... almost reverently.  
  
As obvious as I knew the answer was, I still had to ask. "Do you play?"  
  
"Oh..." the edges of her lips rose slightly, seemingly flattered. "No."  
  
I glanced around nervously for signs of employees. "Do they, uh... mind? I mean, if I..."  
  
She shook her head, her grin widening.  
  
I smiled. "Here."  
  
I stepped behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, and led her to the bench. She sat, surprisingly submissive, trusting; her hands running nervously along the smooth, wooden edge of the seat. My touch lingered on her shoulders a moment beyond what was necessary, and I promptly withdrew, dropping to my knees behind her and reaching around to take her hands in mine.  
  
Perhaps exhaustion, perhaps the luring scent of her shampoo, posed as the anonymous force that pushed me forward, until I was just slightly pressed against her back, my mouth poised behind her ear. The moment our bodies touched, I felt her leaning back into my chest. Strands of her hair fluttered in the vague wave of air from a distant ceiling fan, stray curls brushing against my cheek.  
  
I gave her hands a light squeeze. "Just relax, okay?"  
  
She nodded, and the words 'Mark, what the hell are you doing?' began what would grow to be a very long, loud, and incessant resonation in my head.  
  
Our four hands became two as I lifted them to the keys, positioning them precisely in the opening chords of Mozart's Fantasy in D Minor. As perfect and idealistic as I craved for this entire scene to be, I knew I was probably kidding myself. I hadn't played the piece in years, let alone through someone else's hands.  
  
One by one, through words and touch and without ever playing one note, I pointed out exactly which keys we were going to press and when. The moments flew by as I whispered in her ear-soft instructions melded with the occasional unforeseen joke about one of the bar's more amusing patrons, whom I'd happen to spot randomly out of the corner of my eye.  
  
When at last I felt she was ready, I told her so, and together, we sent the first low, somber note into the air. Her eyes fell shut as we worked our way, slowly, fluidly, through the introduction-to my surprise, flawlessly. As we neared the end, I slowly lifted my hands from hers, wondering if, by some miracle, the rest of the notes might magically inspire themselves to her without further guidance from me.  
  
...And they did.  
  
My hands had slid from hers, further and further back until they were resting on her shoulders. And she was still playing. I rose to my feet, backing myself against the nearest wall to watch her in all her glory.  
  
And then, at once, she snapped back to reality, eyes drifting open as her fingers trailed away from the keys and came to rest by her sides, listless. Her eyes met mine, sheepishly.  
  
A moment longer, and I would have been speechless. "I thought you didn't play."  
  
"I don't," she admitted, smiling softly. "I used to."  
  
And as we left the bar in silence, touched until the very last second by the gazes of the obviously impressed clientele, I realized that this... moment, whatever it was... was not over. It-something-something I couldn't yet understand-had just begun.  
  
For the first time all evening, not a word was said as we shuffled down the streets, making our way back to the loft as slow as we possibly could without walking backwards. She made no effort to recreate that closeness we had come to know; we remained a good two feet apart, stepping over our own respective patches of grass, beer bottles, or discarded scraps of newspaper. On occasion, I would steal a glance at her, and there were random moments I was sure I felt her eyes moving over my shadowed figure.  
  
I had no idea what I was feeling. I kept waiting for some moment-something one of us would say or do that would somehow make sense of... oh, say, why my best friend's lover was occupying my every thought, or why I never, ever wanted this night to end. And now, every time we caught each other's eye, suddenly bashful as we both immediately turned away, it was as though that potential moment was just being lost, over and over again... and if we waited much longer, it was going to pass us by.  
  
And, as we stood inside our building on the second floor, outside her door... the maddening, unforgiving optimist in me still believed there was time left for that moment.  
  
"Guess Roger's still passed out upstairs," I observed as we reached her doorstep.  
  
"Yeah. He'll be there all night. Once he's out, he's out."  
  
Smalltalk. The greatest curse intimacy has ever known.  
  
"So." I shuffled my feet on the floor, my eyes catching my new pants-a symbol, I suppose, of the night's memories.  
  
"Yeah." She was obviously relieved that I'd spoken first, this single word escaping as a pained sigh, as though the silence had literally been killing her. "Um... Mark?"  
  
I looked up. One hand was on the doorknob, the other rested lifelessly by her side.  
  
"I..."  
  
I waited. I could afford to. Something told me... it would be worth the wait.  
  
She smiled, looking away as she tried to shrug off whatever she was going to say. "I just... wish I'd taken you dancing, that's all. I know a great place..."  
  
I nodded slowly. "Next time."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Finally, our eyes locked-not just for a second, but fully. We both knew there wasn't going to be a next time.  
  
She at least had strength enough to lighten the mood, which was more than I could say for myself, as she reached out, smiling and brushed a piece of lint off my shirt. "I had a great time tonight."  
  
"Me too."  
  
No. No, that's not what I meant to say at all.  
  
"I mean-" I amended, making sure to catch her eye. "Thank you. For..."  
  
She nodded. She understood. I hadn't thought she would. It frightened me.  
  
"Happy birthday, Mark," she whispered, and she was in my arms-head against my chest, arms around my waist. I closed my eyes, and held her, and fought as best I could to ignore the lavender and vanilla that seemed to be everywhere at once.  
  
We pulled apart, and I knew that was it. The moment had passed us by. I wasn't sure what that moment was, or what it was supposed to be, or even what it would have been... but it was gone. I didn't have to wait anymore.  
  
And on that note, I forced a smile. "So, can I call you?"  
  
It worked; she laughed. A quiet laugh, careful not to wake the dormant inhabitants of the loft-but a real, authentic Mimi-laugh all the same. This sudden, unexpected outburst had somehow softened her voice, and she took a step toward me, capturing my hand in hers.  
  
"Come see me sometime, Mark."  
  
"Okay."  
  
A last smile lit up her eyes. "Goodnight."  
  
It didn't have to end here...  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
And yet, it did.  
  
We still watched each other, even to the last moment, as she winked at me and disappeared behind her door-slowly, one limb at a time, until only her head was visible-before the door clicked to an almost silent close.  
  
That was it.  
  
I couldn't bear to stare at the door much longer after it was closed. I glanced up the stairs toward our loft, and found my feet utterly, distinctly unwilling to carry me a step further away from her.  
  
God... what the fuck had she done to me?  
  
It was going on five minutes by now, that time that I stood there. I would look up at the loft, shake my head, look at her door, feel my heart shatter, and collapse on the stairs. It fast became a cycle, and I was on the fourth round when I heard a shuffle from her side of the door, and leapt-quite literally-to my feet.  
  
Her door creaked open, and she was back. ...Partly. Her hair was devoid of glitter. Most of the outrageous makeup had been washed away, save for the always indelible mascara. The dress was gone, but rather than a sparkly, short-lived bra in its place, a small gray tank top hugged her body closely, accented by a pair of light pink pajama pants.  
  
She clutched the doorframe with one hand, in obvious shock; her voice little beyond a breath.  
  
"You're still here..."  
  
I wasn't going to be able to explain this, was I?  
  
"I-" I stammered, feeling my throat close up at every attempt to speak. "I just..."  
  
Her eyes were waiting. Pleading.  
  
"I just thought I'd come see you."  
  
And then, she was closer. And closer. And finally she could get no closer, and stood pressed up against me, hands wandering behind my back and along my face, tracing every feature, holding back only for permission...  
  
Oh, God.  
  
The decision was mine.  
  
"Mark..."  
  
I kissed her.  
  
  
  
[Okay, um, for the next chapter... send the kids out of the room and disregard the generous PG13 rating. ;)] 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I have this and a couple more chapters after it, that I wrote last January. I probably won't write any more, but I might as well post what I've written. So hi everyone. :) And also, I really suck at sex scenes. Especially straight sex scenes. Wow, this was written a LONG time ago. LOL.  
  
My eyes opened, seconds later, into darkness, as we were pulled into her apartment. But vision and all other abilities were immediately robbed of me, replaced by sensations far too foreign and intense to be categorized in the five senses. The moments were senses of their own, hitting me like snowflakes-no two ever the same. The taste of her mouth-maple syrup and chocolate and longing... the shivers that trapped me as her nails grazed lightly, tauntingly, along my back... the way her soft, limber body molded to the curves of my own as she leaned into me, pinning me against the wall as one hand reached behind me to flip the lock on the doorknob.  
  
Slowly, she was pulling us toward the center of the room, but it was proving a terrible struggle-she couldn't bear to break the force of the contact between us. We were so, so close, not in inch of space anywhere between our bodies, and the closer we got, the closer we needed to be, and the harder it became to pull away. It was like a drug... like tolerance... even addiction.  
  
And so I took a step forward, closing the space even further. She stumbled backward, letting herself collapse on the couch and pulling me with her. I had no choice but to follow, finding her and a tangle of throw pillows suddenly beneath me. I tossed a handful of the latter across the room, our lips never breaking contact even for a second.  
  
She was so small, I realized-not by watching her, as my eyes refused to open-but simply by touching her. I wanted so badly to stop, to pause everything for a moment and open my eyes and look at her. To find that familiar connection in our eyes that had evolved in the last four hours. But I was so afraid if I did, it would vanish into a dream. I could feel, through the nervousness in her own touch as well, that she was plagued with the same thought.  
  
And so, with this insight, we both began to realize that we had to create a new connection. A kind that we wouldn't fear losing if we were to open our eyes to reality.  
  
Out of nowhere, I felt her hands slide from my back around to my chest, gently prying open those buttons on my shirt she had so carefully fastened only hours before. I leaned back instinctively, eyes still closed... and as I did, she shifted positions beneath me-and I found myself on the floor.  
  
My eyes shot open for the first time, and I looked up. She was still on the couch where I'd left her, peering down at me. Her hair was noticeably more ruffled than I remembered from the hallway, as was the general state of her attire. But what struck me most were her lips-slowly, of their own will, they were moving to form a smile.  
  
Three seconds later, she had dissolved into an all-out fit of giggles.  
  
I abandoned it all-fear, uncertainty, and appropriateness-and reached up over the couch, pulling her down on top of me. She let out a squeak of surprise-she hadn't expected it. And as she landed on top of me, finding her balance... I realized I loved catching her off guard.  
  
She smiled down at me, and for a few seconds, neither of us moved a muscle... and that's when it hit me. She was still here. It wasn't a dream.  
  
Locking her eyes with mine in that way we'd grown so attached to all evening... she slowly sat up, sliding down my chest until she had me trapped... and resumed her work on the buttons. Apparently, location-be it the couch or the floor or the kitchen counter-didn't seem to faze her in the slightest.  
  
She finished the last button and, leaning over me, pushed the shirt's smooth, almost liquid material off my shoulders, before bringing her mouth back to mine. In an instant, I'd rolled us both over into a pile of throw pillows, pinning her beneath me and finding her lips once again. And again, she was caught off guard. But I was learning that she loved it as much as I did. Her hand held the back of my neck, desperately... and while that was more than enough to make me melt, I stopped her.  
  
Gently, I pried her hands away from me, laying them down above her head. She watched my every move, submissive and completely trusting. My fingers began playing with the hem of her tank top, just barely, almost waiting for a signal that I was allowed to go further.  
  
As I began to peel away the fabric, each second exposing another inch of skin, I stopped-realizing I was so close to her that I could feel her heartbeat. And it was racing.  
  
I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask if she was sure about this.  
  
But I didn't have to. We both knew the answer.  
  
I lifted the tank top over her head, dropping it to the floor beside us, and traced delicate patterns across her chest, slowly working my way down. As my lips replaced my hands, I saw her eyes flutter shut, just before lifting her hands to cradle my head, her fingers weaving through my hair. I was becoming more daring with each second, and her trust only encouraged my initiative.  
  
As my soft, winding trail of kisses landed at the top of her pajama pants, my fingers slipped beneath them without a moment of hesitation, slowly pulling them down to her ankles. And, as I did... I discovered, to my surprise, that that was the last piece of clothing I would have to worry about.  
  
I pulled back-just for a moment, knowing I couldn't stand for much longer- to look at her.  
  
God, she was beautiful.  
  
She read my mind-or else it simply came through in my eyes. But she smiled. Just a brief flash of light across her face. Even if it had remained longer, I doubt I would have noticed, for in the next moment, I felt a tug on the zipper of my pants. First one hand, then two, began dexterously freeing me from the leather confines I had come to know so well over the evening. For someone who had been so hell-bent on my buying them, she seemed in an awful hurry to see them go.  
  
Moments later, they were long forgotten in a heap of stray throw pillows, and for the first time, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, between us. It was as though our very last, lingering anxieties had floated to that pile of pillows right along with our clothes.  
  
Our touches were everywhere now-completely liberated, uncompromising, uninhibited. She had somehow escaped from underneath me and rolled over on top, distracting me with a torrid sequence of deep, lingering kisses as her hands wandered further and further down my body, until...  
  
My eyes drifted open, and she sensed it, releasing my mouth. I opened my mouth to speak, and she placed a finger against my lips.  
  
But she knew. She saw the look in my eyes, and the look in her own eyes reflected in mine. She knew neither of us would be able to last much longer.  
  
Slowly, deliberately, she rolled off me, pulling me on top of her until we were so close, neither of us could move. Her hand crawled up my side, catching my hand along the way, and brought it up to her chest, gently placing it against her heart.  
  
I caught her lips in mine, a final time, as our bodies began tentatively, carefully moving over each other.  
  
I'd barely felt that hint of warmth against my legs before she was pushing me back.  
  
"Wait-"  
  
We watched each other, inches apart-still remarkably close in theory, but for us, seemingly further apart than ever-as our quick, desperate breaths echoed in the room.  
  
"Wait." The word escaped her lips in a quick breath. "We can't..."  
  
I froze. Everything. My hands couldn't move, my eyes couldn't blink. I found myself mentally going through the motions of remembering how to breathe.  
  
Her eyes widened, terrified at my clearly palpable shock... though, honestly could she blame me?  
  
"Oh... baby, no..." she amended quickly. "I mean-we need a..."  
  
...Oh.  
  
OH.  
  
I reached across us, snatching my wallet from the back of my pants and pulling a tiny plastic wrapper from the change pocket. In a record ten seconds, it was unwrapped, prepped, and applied... and when I turned back to her, that urgent, pleading look on her face told me that, clearly, the moment had not been lost.  
  
We fell against each other, magnetized. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as we made contact, and suddenly the room was silent.  
  
Before now, at any kiss or touch or movement, her eyes would fall shut when the intensity grew almost unbearable. But now, as we melted together, it was as though she was terrified to break that direct line between our eyes, for fear of losing me.  
  
I only knew because I suffered from that same irrational fear.  
  
But after a few moments, as our bodies began to settle into a rhythm, a certain faith grew between us, and at last she allowed her eyes to drift closed... confident that I would still be here when she opened them... that I wasn't going to leave her side no matter what.  
  
When I felt secure enough in her trust, I began to take more liberties, allow more aggression to escape. She liked it. Everything I dared to attempt was met with such acceptance, such passionate reciprocation, that it only propelled me further, until there were no more boundaries. No more questions, no more tests of trust, no more uncertainty... and no more restraint.  
  
Her breaths became shorter, ragged, with every step we took. The moments began climbing exponentially, her hands first running gently along my back, and suddenly those crimson-painted nails were gripping at anything and everything, embedding themselves in my skin as her head rolled back against the throw pillows and discarded articles of clothing. Soft, almost inaudible sounds found their way up from the depths of her throat-wordless, incoherent, conceivably in another language for all I knew.  
  
As we grew closer, I leaned in, dropping a kiss at the base of her neck, and that's all it took. She cried out-so briefly I could have imagined it- her back arched and every part of her body wrapped around mine...  
  
And then, the room was still.  
  
As we lay there on the floor in an immaculate silence, bodies entwined in the midst of stray shirts and pants, all I wanted was to ask her what she was thinking. But when I felt her head nestle itself into the crook of my neck, a stray hand lightly stroking my chest... it occurred to me-there was no doubt; our minds were as paralleled as they had been all night.  
  
I looked down, and her head was already tilted upward, watching my every breath, every blink. Her eyes shut as I leaned in, touching my lips to the tip of her nose, her forehead, each of her closed eyelids... covering the remaining few inches my lips had yet to explore before trapping her mouth in mine. But even such a scarce, light bit of contact was too exhausting, and we finally fell back to the floor, pressed against each other.  
  
I drew in a slow, tranquil breath, touching my forehead to hers. "Can I just say... wow."  
  
I felt her smile as her lips brushed against mine... and suddenly realized that, amazing as her smile was to look at, it was even more amazing to feel. Her arm circled around me until her hand rested on my head, and she began to stroke my hair, her voice melting into my ear.  
  
"Are you insanely hot right now?"  
  
I swallowed. Twice. "Um."  
  
Mark... you just slept with her. You're allowed to say yes.  
  
"I, uh... I guess right now I'm more speechless than-"  
  
She was giggling into my shoulder. Why, why was she laughing at me?  
  
"I meant-" she began, "I have a fan in my room."  
  
And all the way back to her room, she was giggling. Hanging all over me and whispering things in my ear and just being shamelessly amused by me in general. We gathered our clothes from the floor in a rush, disappeared behind her bedroom door, dropped them on the floor and fell onto her bed. Her hand escaped mine, briefly, to pull a paper-thin sheet over us, before she nestled against me with a sigh.  
  
The sheet settled into the curves of our bodies, cradling us in the cool, fresh cotton, and for five minutes, neither one of us dared to move.  
  
"Hey," she whispered, one finger stroking my chest. "You wanna talk?"  
  
At this point, I couldn't imagine that saying no to her would result in anything good. "Okay."  
  
"Kay." She rolled over on top of me, pouncing, and rested her chin on top of my chest. "Tell me about Miss Broom Closet."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Spill. I want to know. It sounds kinky and it might give me some ideas."  
  
She was dreadfully matter-of-fact, and so fucking serious. I laughed. A shocked laugh. A wonderfully shocked laugh, and right then, I almost said it. The words that had been fighting to escape all night without even my awareness. Three words that could change our relationship far more than the night already had.  
  
"...Mark?"  
  
"Um." I snapped back to reality; it's hard to stay distracted for long when there is a Mimi snuggled on top of you, tracing light finger-patterns all over your body, except for the parts that could actually be exposed in public. "Her dad was the rabbi. She taught me to tango. One day we just... what?!"  
  
Giggles had taken over, not surprisingly, as she rolled off me and buried her face in a pillow. "Seriously? You know how to tango?"  
  
"Kinda."  
  
She leaned in closer, her sweet breath warm against my face-and a flash of memory from the rush of passion only minutes before began flooding my senses. "What else did she teach you?"  
  
I grinned wickedly. "How to use my tongue for things you wouldn't believe."  
  
God, she was so much better than I was at taking a line like that. I would have tripped over something, blushed, knocked over the nearest item I could reach, or be rendered speechless (or some embarrassing combo of all five). But she only smiled. There was a brief moment of impressed shock-eyes widening, a little blushing, all that good stuff-but she recovered so quickly it almost ruined the effect.  
  
"I meant," she whispered slowly, her lips trailing down my neck, "in terms of dancing."  
  
I gulped. Of... course she did.  
  
Her head disappeared under the sheet, lowering her path of kisses until she was completely out of sight. "But," she offered, head suddenly reappearing as she crawled back on top of me, "maybe I wouldn't mind a demonstration..."  
  
"Oh, God," I sighed. "It's been years. Last time was like, Christmas Eve with Joanne. I don't even know how-"  
  
Her mouth silenced me, assaulting my own briefly, intensely, before pulling away. "I wasn't talking about dancing this time."  
  
I blinked. That is all.  
  
She winked. "Did she teach you salsa?"  
  
Hmm. If I said yes, she'd make me demonstrate. But if I said... "No..."  
  
"Ooh! I'll teach you!"  
  
Yeah. That.  
  
She scrambled across the bed, growing quickly tangled in the comforter, and promptly toppled over the side of the bed, dragging it with her as she tumbled into a heap on the floor. I watched the lump of bedclothes scuttle across the floor, and, almost magician-style, she emerged moments later in a loose red halter top and black lace underwear, which I could only assume she thought counted as modest apparel.  
  
Hurling the comforter back onto the bed, she tossed me a huge black t- shirt. "Put this on," she instructed, gesturing to her window. "I don't have curtains yet, and Mr. Litman's a horny old bastard."  
  
My eyes darted nervously in the implied direction of Mr. Litman, half- watching as she leaned over her dresser to light a candle. Of course, when my mind processed the fact that she was actually *leaning over* to light the candle... I was doing a hell of a lot more than half-watching.  
  
Within the same blend of sudden moments, a muted glow from the coconut candle filled the room, and the first sizzling notes erupted from her stereo.  
  
She laughed at me as I stood beside her, straight and tall and unflinchingly nervous. "We're gonna have to get a bit closer," she told me over the music, sliding her hand beneath my shirt and pulling me against her. "Like this."  
  
I stumbled over a pile of undergarments on the floor. "I've never, uh-"  
  
"Don't talk."  
  
And so I didn't. I relaxed into her arms, allowing her to drag us across the tiny space of her bedroom, hindered only by such junk on the floor as bottles of nail polish and empty CD cases-none of which I could have possibly noticed at that moment, or the moment I tripped over one such aforementioned item and fell backwards into the stereo.  
  
The music disappeared, replaced only by the crackling of broken CD cases beneath us. Even the candle had given up, leaving us in the cool, silent intimacy of the shadows. Mimi was by my side instantly-which, considering we'd been rather glued together before, wasn't all that surprising.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
I nodded vaguely. "What's that sound?"  
  
Instead of the typical automated response of 'What sound?', she actually stopped to listen, and even in the darkness, I could see her eyes light up. "That's Mr. Litman. I told you he's crazy. He plays his CDs every Saturday night."  
  
I nodded at her solemnly. "That... *is* crazy. How dare he?"  
  
"Smartass," she hissed, whacking the sleeve of my t-shirt. "He doesn't even play it for anyone, just himself. Leaves his window open and blasts Celine Dion to the whole goddamn neighborhood."  
  
Apparently she just wasn't seeing it.  
  
"Hey," I whispered, taking her hand in mine and pulling us both to our feet. "Dance with me."  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "To 'My Heart Will Go On'? What are we, twelve?!"  
  
Slowly, I stepped through the darkness and brought us together, our lips inches apart. "We can afford to be twelve for one night, can't we?"  
  
Somehow our closeness had hypnotized her, and she nodded, that sparkle in her gaze latching onto some vague connection in mine. Her eyes closed and she fell against me, one hand sliding around my back to pull me closer; the other reaching up to my cheek, guiding my lips to hers.  
  
I was suddenly terrified. Her kisses were growing quickly addicting, and her lips seemed to fit to the shape of my own more perfectly each time. And somewhere with every kiss, there was that distant contemplation, forced to the farthest part of my thoughts, resonating my greatest fear.  
  
*You only have one night.*  
  
I heard my name-not even heard, but felt; a languidly exhaled syllable, barely traveling through the darkness, but enough to make me weak in the knees.  
  
I held her just a little tighter-as though every word that passed between us now was only trying to pull us apart. We parted, just enough to see into one another's eyes, and even then, we were so close it would have been easier to taste one another's souls than to see into them.  
  
Slowly, barely even a movement at all-she shook her head.  
  
"There's so much I want to say to you right now."  
  
My heart raced. I swallowed. I blinked. If I kept this up, verbal ability might escape me altogether.  
  
"Say it," I whispered, tracing a finger along her cheek. "...I might say it back."  
  
The words were there, out in the open, breaking the silence the darkness seemed to hold so well, before either of us could realize their weight. I'd made an assumption. A rash, bold one. But the shock in her face clearly told me it was the right one. And now we were trapped.  
  
Her hands pressed into my back. "Stay with me tonight."  
  
I nodded. I couldn't have survived it any other way. And, in synchronous steps, we found our way back to the bed, collapsing in each other's embrace.  
  
Across the room, the glaring red numbers of her digital clock traveled from '3:48' to '4:06' in what felt like mere seconds. The precious, escaping minutes were spent slowly, deliberately, as we freed each other from our second round of clothing. Exhaustion led us into a silent intimacy-deep, slow-motion kisses and uninhibited touches, carrying little of the frantic desperation from earlier in the night. 4:06 and fatigue both caught up with us, as we finally settled into a position that wouldn't compromise the closeness we craved: her, curled up against a pillow, and me, pressed against her bare back, my arms wrapped around her waist.  
  
"Meems...?" I ventured.  
  
"Mmm."  
  
Don't, Mark. Don't ask. You don't want the answer. Don't be a masochist. You know what she's going to say... don't do it don't do it don't do it...  
  
I pulled her closer. "What happens tomor-"  
  
"No." She rolled over, facing me, brushing away the hair that had fallen across my forehead as she lowered her eyes. "Please," she whispered into my chest, dropping kisses in between breaths. "Don't. Not yet."  
  
I nodded. "Then... what happens now?"  
  
"Now..." She inhaled a shaky breath, trying her hardest to find strength enough for an answer, and buried her face against me, hiding from the inevitable morning beyond our control... that morning that was slowly tainting the night. "Now we wait."  
  
And we waited.  
  
"Are you asleep?" I asked lamely.  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"It's 4:18."  
  
"Jesus Christ, you're watching the clock," she sighed. "Don't. Stuff it in the drawer."  
  
I closed my eyes briefly, long enough to at least partly honor her request. "I can't help it."  
  
"Fine."  
  
And instead of reaching across me and plopping it into the drawer herself, she merely rolled over and fixated her own eyes on the harsh red numbers. The effect-sadly, bitterly intentional-was less than comforting. Her eyes were locked to the same object as mine; the same moment-devouring object that was slowly, steadily, taking away our night. But the warmth was gone. She'd shifted entirely across the bed, clutching a pillow, taking the majority of the bedclothes with her.  
  
Me and my fucking stubbornness.  
  
"I'm sorry," I whispered.  
  
Silence.  
  
I inched my way across to her, shocked to find that the gesture had become almost instinctive, as had my need to be close to her. And suddenly, I wanted to just... *say* that. To tell her I needed to be close to her. That the clock didn't fucking matter. That there didn't have to be a 'tomorrow'. That this didn't have to end... not here, not ever.  
  
But one should always be wary of admitting things to others that you only just admitted to yourself.  
  
"Mimi..."  
  
For a second, maybe even a whole second, I thought it might not be a mistake. I touched her shoulder, and she didn't pull away. I gently ran my fingers along her arm, her side, eventually tracing abstract designs across her back. It wasn't until I finally wrapped my arms around her that I felt her trembling beneath my touch.  
  
She was crying.  
  
"Oh, God, I'm sor-"  
  
That was it. Perhaps we would have been spared the outburst if I'd kept my mouth shut, or if I'd shoved the clock off the nightstand in the first place, or if she hadn't kissed me on the rooftop that night. But we hadn't done any of these things... and, as I was beginning to realize, for every action (or lack thereof), there is an equal and opposite-  
  
She sprung up in bed, snatching the clock and hurling it across the room before collapsing against a pile of pillows, face buried in her hands.  
  
This time, she let me hold her.  
  
And, seeing as there was no more clock, I have no idea how long we lay there, shedding silent tears and holding onto each other and both knowing, for the first time simultaneously, that this was all we would ever have.  
  
At last, she pulled herself up, her body weakened from tears and exhaustion, and lured me into her gaze. I knew there was more... I could tell from her heartbeat, beating so closely to my own, that this wasn't simply another longing glance.  
  
But nothing could have prepared me.  
  
"I love you."  
  
She'd said it so many times before. To me, to everyone. Not like this. She didn't even say it like this to Roger...  
  
Oh my God.  
  
Roger.  
  
Somehow, some ridiculous escape mechanism forced me to see through those liquid, chocolate-colored eyes, begging for something I couldn't even identify. Forced me not to hear the words that had shattered the room's stillness.  
  
"I-" I stumbled. "But-Roger... you're..."  
  
"That doesn't matter. Just know that right here, now, tonight... I love you."  
  
My mouth opened to speak, but I had no idea what I would have said even if I'd been able to form some kind of sentence.  
  
She inched closer, her eyes pleading-those intense, ardent eyes I was trying so fruitlessly not to see at that moment. "Don't forget that."  
  
"I..."  
  
And I would have said it. If her finger hadn't pressed softly against my lips, if her eyes hadn't broken the connection right then for the thousandth time that night, if it weren't for my fear of throwing out words that would only make this harder for us both...  
  
I spent another undefined, clock-less amount of time holding her, staring at the ceiling and feeling her warm breath against my neck, before those words found their way past my fear and up to my lips.  
  
I had to tell her.  
  
"Mimi..."  
  
Far too busy collecting my courage, I didn't even notice the silence until it was too late.  
  
She was asleep. 


End file.
